Frozen
by Shadow Valkyrie
Summary: A mage's nights can be cold and lonely. RaistlinDalamar, but nothing graphic. Disclaimer: Dragonlance isn't mine.


I dug out an old fic of mine! Rejoice! (Or, better: RUN!)

This story is set somewhere before or during Legends, I guess, because Dalamar is what someone so very appropriately called "caretaker" of Raistlin's tower. But don't worry: it's rather psychology-/relationship-focused, so I'm not messing with the plot or screwing major timelines up, for once.

This is the revised and pretty much changed version of one of my first 'Dragonlance' fics. (And don't hope: the revision didn't help its trite symbolism one bit.) I like both versions equally and their outcome and intention are basically the same (though the realationship is... ahm... slightly different), but this here is (a bit) more accurate where the characters are concerned, avoids _some_ of the clichés and violates the books a bit less. Yes, I know, it's still cliché enough, but it's nicely bittersweet and I do love the ending.

Warnings: Slash, messing with the English language, trite symbolism.

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**Frozen **

It was night and the world was aching with frost. It kept creeping in through the window frames and through the stone-cold walls themselves -or at least it seemed so to Dalamar, who was standing at the eastern window of the library in the Tower of High Sorcery. Odd, he thought, that he preferred to stand here every night, looking out over a dead forest and a sleeping city, inhabited by mortals whom he didn't know and didn't care for. He could have draw this curtain as all the others were drawn and sit down cosily in front of the fireplace with a cup of wine and a book. But he wouldn't.

His warm breath veiled the windowpanes and froze into regular white patterns instantly. The icy crystals stood out like stars against the black backdrop of darkness. The city was distant, its rush almost inaudible even on crowded spring days -as though the sounds of everyday human affairs did not dare to cross the forbidding grove of Shoikan for fear to accidently disturb the ancient terrors looming within. It seemed even further away tonight; or not there at all. The entire world seemed frozen, and far, far removed from the tower where only Dalamar dwelt and with him his master's guardian spirits. The mere thought of them sent a shiver down the dark elf's spine, even after the many years he had lived with them and commanded them and never shown any fear, for, smelling it, they would have killed him.

As to his master... he was darker, more intimidating than any ghost or monstrous being -yet it was him that Dalamar was waiting for, every single night, with a silent longing he had finally ceased to be in denial about.

The library was the most homely place in the Tower of High Sorcery, free of alcohol-preserved specimens and fermenting herbs, smelling only of wood and old books, and almost spacious enough to be comfortable even to an elf. Still, Dalamar felt imprisoned and unable to breathe. Being encaged like this should make him restless, he knew, but it only made him tired. Elves disliked enclosed places -and to find a more enclosed place than this tower, one had to look for a dwarven fortress.

_Why do you leave me alone here, _Shalafi? Dalamar asked without words_. Am I not worthy to wander the world on your paths of magic, with you? You taught me so much. Why will you not teach me those secrets that your soul is made of?_

There was only silence aswering him. The fire crackled and a log slipped from the collapsing pile of half-burnt wood, letting the room grow darker, with the shadows in the corners expanding. Being a dark elf did not necessarily mean you enjoyed darkness -not this kind of it, anyway. Like water it kept welling up from behind the high rows of bookshelves and the oak-paneled walls.

Dalamar knew he should move and feed the fire before it went out completely, but he could not muster enough energy or strength of will to do so. He stood unmoving, staring into a distance he could not see, because the window was long-since blind with icy flowers. _Loneliness_, he decided with a startled little sensation in his stomach. It was so very clear suddenly. The kind of knowledge that exists in the back of your soul, long before you put it into words and confess it to yourself. _I'm lonely. Lonely in every possible sense._

He wondered why that hurt; he was well-used to exile after all, having been banned from his homeland for more than a human lifetime now. But he had not felt anthing like this in many years, not since the time that the pain of exile had still been fresh and he had been alone and helpless in a world of hostile, or, at best, indifferent strangers. He had changed since then, he thought, he had hardened and gotten used to the world he was now living in and had found himself a place where he fit in and a man whom he could respect and give his loyalty to. He had not expected to ever experience the same feeling of loneliness and yearning again. Yet, here it was and it hurt like the stab of a knife. _Shalafi, _he thought, turning the knife inside him. _Where are you and why, why are you going there without me? _

It was weakness, he knew. This longing he felt made him vulnerable. The dark elf was the first to despise weakness in others, to sneer on it and use it for his own ends. He was proud of being strong, being heartless, being cynical. He had never expected some feeling other than his devotion to magic to gain control over him. _And it does not, now_, he ensured himself in angry defiance. _I will not allow it. This is something physical, a need of my body and nothing else. It's this physical need that starts interfering with my mental state, only because I left it untended and unstilled for too long. _

Somewhere deep inside, he was aware of this being no more than half of the truth. His need could not be stilled by just anyone's touch. (Though, at times, it got so bad he believed the touch of any being other than a ghost might stop him aching.) It was his master he longed for, his company, his voice, his eyes -however cold- that sometimes softened in mockery. He longed for his body, too, and had accepted this desire far more readily and for quite a few years now. Bodies were so much easier to understand and satisfy than souls. For years, Dalamar had refused to accept that there might be more he wanted to get from his master than lessons in magic and lessons in power, even more than the lessons in lust he dreamt of when he lay down to sleep.

_What about lessons in love? _a persistent little voice asked. Dalamar crossed the thought on the parchment of his mind with violent strokes, then crumpled the sheet together and threw it into an imaginary fire, for the flames to consume and forever wipe out of his memory.

This reminded him. _The fire. I shouldn't let the fire go out. _Things_ lurk in the darkness. I can cope with them, but I won't allow them to come closer than necessary. _Trancelike, he made his way to the fireplace, put fresh logs on and watched, sitting on his heels, as the flames leapt and danced happily again, yet did not melt the frozen core inside him.

A sudden gust of cold air, smelling of damp, ageing stone, sent a chill through him. The door to the staircase had been opened. Dalamar's heart beat faster. None of the beings that guarded the tower needed to open doors. There was only one explanation -and it filled the Dark elf with a confusing, unfocused mass of contradictory emotions. Mostly joy, but also fear and burning anticipation. He was glad his long black hair veiled his face from the archmage's sight. He only dared to turn round after he had firmly fixed a welcoming but non-commitant smile on his face. He stood up, his black robes rustling softly.

"_Shalafi,_" he said, head bowed.

"Dalamar," came the answer, in that coarse, rasping voice had had so longed to hear.

Why couldn't he look up? He had nothing to hide, did he? "Are you hungry, _Shalafi_?"

The answer was matter-of-factly. "Yes, I am. I think I will eat here." He felt impassive hourglass eyes pierce him. "You will join me, I take it."

Dalamar's heart pounded against his ribs. He looked up, startled to have his thoughts read so clearly. No, that was impossible. Raistlin Majere would not give much about the desires of his disciple. If something was going to be satisfied, it would be his own. If he was in the mood for company, Dalamar had to provide it; if he wasn't, then Dalamar would quietly obey and retreat to his own rooms.

But the archmage looked so beautiful, the melting snowflakes glistening in his hair and the firelight reflecting off his golden skin and flickering in his golden eyes, that Dalamar was too stunned to respond. Pulling himself together, he simply bowed again and worked the spell that would transport him to the kitchen.

The kitchen was dark and smelled of cold grease. After an automatic "_Shirak!_", Dalamar found a tray and plates. One of them briefly reflected his face, looking pale and haunted and incredibly sad.

_I should tell him. - Tell him what? - Tell him I love him. - Do I? - Yes, I do. _It was simple, much simpler than he had thought to admit it to himself finally. _So here I am, staring into the sink and thinking about love. I am a pathetic creature. _He couldn't deny the truth anymore. _Not only his body, I want his heart with it. _

When he returned with what food he had been able to find, Raistlin had already taken off his wet cloak and seated himself.

They ate in silence. Dalamar forced himself not to fidget in his chair. Unable to eat anything, he poked a piece of potato with his fork, staring intently at the regular pattern of little holes this left, as though they might suddenly make sense and tell him what to do. He was ashamed for behaving like an child, but he couldn't help it.

He, Dalamar Argent, one of the most powerful mages on Krynn, apprentice to the highest of them all, was afraid -more than he had ever been in all his magical battles.

Tell it, he would -but how? Was there any _right _way to say it at all?

The fork cut through the potato and hit the plate with a sharp clank.

Dalamar bit his lip. "Master, I must tell you something..." he burst out before he could stop himself, but then broke off. With a detached amusement he registered how strained and weak his voice sounded, how alien. He did not dare to look up. All he would see in his master's eyes would be refusal. Mockery at best, disgust at worst -but he knew they both would hurt him alike.

"..." he opened his mouth once more but nothing came.

A sudden roar filled the room. The fire flickered and cowered down to no more than a few glowing bits of coal and the library was as cold as the night outside in only the wink of an eye. Confused, Dalamar looked up. A pale apparition had materialized in the centre of the room. A ghost, like the spirit guardians, but immensely more powerful. Cold radiated from the dead being.

Raistlin's face showed no surprise and the cold did not seem to touch him. "Have you brought it?" he asked. Instead of an answer the ghost produced an ancient tome and put it down on the floor, where it lost its ghostly glow, looking solid and real, its leather creased with age and slightly discoloured. "Well done," Raistlin said in dismissive tones. "You can leave."

"Yesssss, massssster..." the apparition hissed in a whisper, which resembled nothing so much as the icy midwinter wind Dalamar had been listening to all evening, and disappeared. The fire, as in revenge, flared up to double height.

Raistlin got up and picked the book up from the floor. Reverently, his fingers traced the golden letters of the title and gently probed the quality of the binding.

_I wished you would touch _me_ this way, _Dalamar thought, his skin prickling at the imagined touch of delicate golden hands on his own fair skin. With the familiar feeling of another revelation long since in the making, he realized, _I may wish, but I know you never will. _

"I love you, master," he heard his own, alien voice say sadly, without having consciously decided to say anything.

Raistlin looked up from the book for a split second. "I know," he simply answered. "Now take those dishes away and let me study. This here is important."

"Yes, master," Dalamar coaxed out. Feeling numb and entirely hopeless, he collected their plates, glasses and pieces of cutlery -on all of which the spirit's frosty breath still lingered, forming a delicate pattern of frozen flowers- with mechanical movements and left. He risked one last glance at the black and golden figure of his master at the desk, white head bent over the book already and lost to him, beautiful, cold and distant as the icy stars outside.

_Well done. You can leave. _There would never be more for him, either.

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Reviews are appreciated.

(revised August and October 2006)


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